


Over Easy

by Miershooptier



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Seriously a lot of eggs you guys, Swearing, Wrong Orders, lots of eggs, slight angst, waffle house au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miershooptier/pseuds/Miershooptier
Summary: Five times Geralt’s eggs were not over easy, and one time they were.A Waffle House AU inspired by a r/relationships post that I saw on Twitter this week.  I'm not affiliated with Waffle House in any way, but I love breakfast food.https://twitter.com/redditships/status/1260126130687881217
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 50
Kudos: 362





	1. Scrambled

“We should celebrate,” Yen declared, hauling herself up into the passenger seat of the truck and pulling the door closed behind her.

Geralt grunted in agreement, unable to keep himself from smiling slightly. He did feel like celebrating. “Where to?”

“Geralt,” Yen rolled her eyes. “It’s _your_ thesis draft that was just submitted to your advisor for review. You get to choose where we go.” There was a stubborn expression on her face, which told him that he wasn’t going to be able to avoid making the decision. She was going to make him choose, and he swore that she took some kind of perverse satisfaction in forcing him out of the passive role he favored when he was out with anyone. He much preferred to keep the peace and go along with what everyone else wanted, even if it ended up being something he didn’t much enjoy. Yen knew this, and she also knew that his therapist had been working with him to start feeling more comfortable about being upfront about his wants, not to mention his needs.

“Hmm.” Geralt absently tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He knew what he wanted, but it wasn’t anything that would have even come up on Yen’s list of options if she’d been the one choosing where to go. 

Fuck it.

“Waffle House,” he grunted, and didn’t miss the short, sharp sigh that she let out in response. But she didn’t criticize or object to his choice.

“You and your breakfast food,” she said fondly. “Fine, let’s go.”

They ended up at the Waffle House that was just a few blocks away from Geralt’s apartment, which was one of the better locations he’d been to around town. He’d been to more than he cared to admit to anyone, but breakfast food was comfort food, they were open all the time, and they were cheap and fast. He knew that favorite restaurants were supposed to be quaint little independent places with unique menus full of authentic cuisine. But he liked what he liked, and he was starting to get over the feeling that he had to apologize for it.

“Oh shit,” Yen said, pausing before going through the door that Geralt had opened for her. “Ciri?”

“She’s at Eskel’s,” Geralt reassured her. “Didn’t know how late I’d be. We’ve got time, she’s fine.” Though he almost wished that Ciri was with them, since she was the only person he knew who liked Waffle House as much as he did. Granted, she was eight years old.

“Evening, folks!” The waitress called cheerfully as they sat down at a table. “Be with you in a sec!”

There weren’t many people at this time of night, which was a little too late for dinner. This meant that the other customers were mostly regulars, which was exactly how Geralt liked it.

“Hey!”

Geralt looked up to see the waitress – Triss, he remembered, and double-checked her name tag to make sure he had it right – smiling warmly at him. She remembered him. He was hard to forget, with his long white hair pulled back into a messy knot, and his eyes which usually got a second glance from most people.

And his scars.

“What can I get for you?” Triss asked, pulling a notepad and pen out of her apron pocket. 

“Just coffee,” Yen said, after barely glancing at the menu.

Geralt frowned. He’d have to order a side of hash browns as a buffer to protect his own food. Yen always said she ‘wasn’t much for eating,’ but never had any problem with helping herself to anything from his plate. 

“And for you, honey?” Triss turned toward him, pen raised expectantly.

“Two egg breakfast with bacon,” he said shortly. “Smothered hash browns, eggs over easy. Coffee to drink. And a side of chunked hash browns.” He shot Yen a knowing look, and she smiled innocently.

“Sure thing, I’ll get that right out.” Triss smiled and walked back to the counter to put the order in.

“Relax, Geralt,” Yen said, seeing him shift in his seat. “Your advisor is going to be really pleased with what you have so far – you’re almost there.”

“I’m just hungry,” Geralt grumbled. It was true, he was hungry. And he was looking forward to breakfast for dinner. God, how long had he been in the library fussing over his thesis draft? It felt like days.

He took a sip of his coffee and pulled out his phone to distract himself, texting Eskel to let him know that he’d be by soon to pick up Ciri. Yen already had her phone out, tapping rapidly at the screen and no doubt telling all of her Twitter followers about what poor taste in dining experiences her sort-of boyfriend had.

“Here we go,” Triss said, sliding the plate with the side of hash browns toward the middle of the table while setting the larger one in front of Geralt. “Enjoy. Just holler if you need anything, I’ll come by and check on your coffees in a moment.”

Geralt’s stomach growled loudly as the greasy and slightly fried smell of the food hit him, and he turned his plate, orienting the food placement so that he could start properly. There was an order to these things. First he would break the eggs and let the yolk mix in with the hash browns and onions. Then he’d cut the rest of the eggs into small pieces that he could fork onto a wedge of toast, which was the primary method of food delivery for this kind of meal. The bacon he would save for last. He always saved the best part of the meal for last.

His fork cut easily through the first egg, but the yolk didn’t ooze. It wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t as though it were pale yellow, it wasn’t quite cooked hard, but it was definitely not cooked easy. He tried the other one without much hope. Its yolk didn’t ooze, either.

Geralt’s whole mood dropped like a stone. He’d been hitting the books hard for weeks. Months. He’d been working on his first draft, and he’d spent so much time at the library today, hunched over his laptop at one of the study tables to the point where he could definitely feel it in his neck and shoulders, and he hadn’t eaten since some stupid protein bar at like eleven in the morning, and he was hungry, dammit. And this wasn’t what he’d ordered. It wasn’t what he _wanted._

“How’s everything tasting?” Triss asked brightly, stopping by to top off Yen’s coffee cup. Her face fell slightly when she saw Geralt staring morosely down at his plate. “Something wrong?”

He shouldn’t say anything, the eggs were edible. They’d probably taste just fine. Only assholes sent their food back, especially in a Waffle House. But…he really had wanted them over easy.

“Eggs are a little overcooked,” Geralt said grudgingly. “But it’s fine, I –”

“Oh no!” Triss bit her lip, which got Yen’s attention. Yen was upfront about being bisexual and she definitely had a type when it came to women. Triss, with her curly dark hair and the adorable smattering of freckles over her light brown skin, fit the criteria almost perfectly. 

“It’s totally fine,” Yen said, flashing her dazzling smile at the waitress. “But if it’s not too busy right now, maybe the cook could give the eggs another try.”

“Absolutely, hon, I apologize. Just give me two minutes.” Triss bustled away.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Geralt muttered.

Yen reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “I know. That’s why I did it for you.”

Geralt gave her a small grin and squeezed her hand back, then nudged the side of hash browns toward her. “Go on, you know you want to.”

She only rolled her eyes slightly before grabbing a fork and digging in.

A low-voiced argument taking place at the counter drew Geralt’s attention, his eyes taking in the scene between Triss and a man wearing a full-length apron spattered with grease, and a black baseball cap with the Waffle House logo. The man was turned away enough that Geralt couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he tensed slightly, not wanting to see anyone get a hard time just because he wanted runny yolks. 

But the argument didn’t seem to be angry or abusive. Triss’s body language was annoyed but also resigned, in spite of the smile that she plastered onto her face as she headed back to their table after taking the plate that the cook was shoving at her. 

“I’m, um, I’m sorry, the cook is in a mood tonight,” Triss said apologetically, placing the plate down on the table. “You won’t be charged. In fact, I’m happy to comp your meal –”

“No,” Geralt said shortly, staring at the freshly scrambled eggs, which were blatantly not even close to what he’d asked for. “No need, this is fine.” He tried for a smile when he glanced up, and Triss looked slightly reassured.

Yen was trying to stifle her laughter, and Geralt glared at her. He ate both the scrambled eggs and his now cold over medium eggs without further complaint, never one to waste food, and not once trying to look up past the counter at the asshole cook who apparently couldn’t handle one simple order.

He left a large tip on the table when he and Yen finally got up to leave.


	2. Hard-boiled

Geralt felt slightly guilty about printing out hard copies of things – it was bad for the environment, he knew – but his eyes got tired after a few hours of screen time and he never felt comfortable putting his laptop on a table next to where he was eating a full meal. He was at a point in his life when he could afford to replace it if he needed to, but he’d learned to make things last by being careful with them and it was a hard habit to break. Besides, it would have been a major pain in the ass to transfer all of his files to a new computer.

He also secretly enjoyed being able to mark the shit out of his first draft instead of just electronically highlighting and inserting comments in the document. His advisor had already done that. In preparation for the second pass at his thesis, he had his yellow highlighter, his red pen, and the will to use both of them ruthlessly. 

Settling into a booth in the corner, Geralt checked his phone to make sure he didn’t have any messages from Eskel before he got into it. He owed his brother a lot for being so flexible about taking care of Ciri, though he knew his god-daughter adored her uncle, and vice versa. He was still on the first page of his thesis when Triss approached, a bright smile lighting up her face. She didn’t even bother to pull out her notebook and pen.

“The usual, hon?”

Geralt snorted to himself. He had a ‘usual,’ now, and he couldn’t quite figure out why that pleased him so much. “Please. And keep the coffee coming if you could.”

“Absolutely, I’ll have the food out in a jiff.” Triss poured some coffee into Geralt’s mug and then made her way back to the counter.

Absorbed as he was in his mark-up process, he barely noticed when Triss set his order down on the table, slightly to the side since his papers were occupying the space directly in front of him. He was vaguely aware of her lingering at the table for longer than she usually did when dropping off his food, and he grunted a short “Thanks,” in case that’s what she was waiting for.

He went over the same half-page one more time to make sure he’d made all necessary notes, then shuffled the papers aside so that he could actually get some food into himself while it was hot. He picked up his fork and then went completely still, leveling a hard gaze at his plate.

Looking up at him innocently from the assortment of hash browns, bacon, and toast were two hard-boiled eggs, carefully peeled and just…just fucking _naked_ right there on his plate. 

What.

The.

Fuck.

Geralt didn’t even try to cut into them. He detested hard-boiled eggs, he hated the way that the yolks were hard and chalky while the whites were shiny and jiggly and wriggled away from any attempts to cut them, as if they were somehow alive. Fucking zombie eggs. It seemed like they always got cold quickly, too, and the only thing he hated more than hard-boiled eggs were _cold_ hard-boiled eggs.

He jerked his head upward to glare at the counter, just in time to see a head pull back behind the wall separating the dining area from the kitchen. A head that had been wearing a black Waffle House baseball cap.

The cook had been watching him, had wanted to see his reaction to these fucking hard-boiled monstrosities on his plate. What a little _shit._

Geralt stood abruptly, ignoring Triss’s panicked look from across the room as he strode toward the counter and pounded his fist rhythmically on the wall in an aggressive approximation of a knock.

“Hey,” he growled. “I’d like a word with the cook.”

The cook in question had been half-hiding behind the huge kitchen range and grill top, and hesitantly took a small step into view before giving himself a shake and squaring his shoulders. Geralt paused for a moment when he got a good look at him. The cook was about his height, not a bulky build but toned and fit. He got a glimpse of bright blue eyes under the brim of the cap, accentuated by some dark eyeliner. The man crossed his arms defensively over his chest, and Geralt could see what looked like a tattoo of a bar staff with musical notes winding around one arm. It went all the way to his wrist and disappeared under the short sleeve of his red T-shirt, and Geralt found himself wondering how far it actually went.

“Sugar, I’ve got words to spare,” the cook drawled, standing more confidently now that he’d decided to stop hiding.

“You think you’re funny?” Geralt demanded, waving a hand back toward his table. “No one orders fucking hard-boiled eggs. Do you get paid to screw up people’s food, or what?”

The cook smirked. “I’m a goddamn delight, and you take eggs way too seriously.”

“It’s not wrong to want what you want,” Geralt snapped, raising his voice slightly.

“You are absolutely correct, Wolf,” the cook murmured, blatantly looking him up and down.

That drew Geralt up short, and he looked down at his T-shirt, which Ciri had given him during the holidays. She’d been so pleased to buy him something to wear with the allowance she’d saved. She had even asked Eskel and Lambert what size to get, and she’d picked out the black shirt with the ghostly white wolf howling at the moon all by herself. 

“Fuck you.” Geralt glared at the man, but he noticed Triss hovering anxiously nearby and tried to calm down. He turned with a huff to go back to his table, and wasn’t quite certain if he heard the cook mutter something like “Yes, please,” under his breath before he was completely out of earshot.

He made sure to make eye contact with Triss as he dropped some cash on the table, so that she knew that he wasn’t skipping out on the bill or stiffing her on a tip, but then gathered up his things and left without eating.


	3. Egg-in-a-Hole

Ciri bounced excitedly in the booth seat, jostling Geralt’s elbow as Eskel and Lambert smiled indulgently at her from across the table. Eskel had given Ciri a cheap plastic tiara, which had literally not left her head the entire day. Lambert had come back to town specifically for Ciri’s birthday, putting off his next bail jumper commission just so that he could. Geralt was glad that he wasn’t in business with his brother anymore. Bounty hunting had been rough on him, he had the scars to prove it, and he’d wanted to prove to himself that he could get his master’s degree in criminal investigation. He wanted to chase after real monsters, not poor schlubs who were generally harmless or just plain down on their luck.

“Well, hello!” Triss greeted their table with poorly-concealed surprise, almost as if she hadn’t expected to see Geralt back. And she was right to be surprised. Geralt wouldn’t have come back, except that Ciri had insisted that she wanted her birthday dinner to be at Waffle House, and after their day at the family fun center playing mini golf, riding go carts (even Lambert, who looked like he might have been too big to fit in one), and a few rounds of bowling, Ciri was bound to crash as soon as she got something in her stomach that wasn’t pure sugar. It was just easier to go to the place closest to the apartment.

“Are y’all ready to order?” Triss asked, glancing curiously at Ciri as she got out her trusty notebook.

“I want a waffle!” Ciri declared, and thrust her wrist out so that Triss could see the small silver charm bracelet that Lambert had given her. “Look at this! I already have a horse and a paw print and a feather!”

“How beautiful!” Triss exclaimed, making a show of admiring the jewelry. “Is it your birthday, sweetie?”

“Yup!” Ciri beamed.

“Well, happy birthday, little miss,” Triss said warmly. “I’ll make sure the kitchen knows to make your waffle extra special.”

Geralt had a sudden and unpleasant sense of foreboding. If a certain cook was at the grill tonight, he could only imagine how ‘special’ it might be. He scowled inwardly. If anyone dared to do _anything_ to ruin Ciri’s day, there would be absolute hell to pay.

They passed the time by asking Ciri what her favorite things were about all the activities they’d managed to cram in earlier, with Lambert roaring with laughter when Ciri mimicked the way that Eskel always wiggled his hips when he was getting ready to bowl. 

“I do not!” Eskel protested, but he was grinning.

Triss’s arrival at the table interrupted the conversation, and she was only carrying a single plate. With great ceremony, she put Ciri’s waffle down in front of her, and the girl gasped. Whipped cream dotted the outer edge of the round waffle, with an extra large dollop right in the middle. Each bit of whipped cream contained a large strawberry, and the whole thing was sprinkled with mini chocolate chips.

“And there’s more,” Triss said with a sly grin, stepping to the side.

Geralt was shocked to see the asshole cook, without his apron and hat, a guitar strap slung over his shoulder as he held the instrument ready. Now Geralt could see that he had soft-looking brown hair which tended to swoop down over one eye. The cook took a step forward, not looking at anyone but Ciri, and very deliberately avoiding Geralt’s gaze in particular.

“When I heard that there was a princess celebrating her birthday here, I knew that we couldn’t just give her a simple ‘happy birthday,’” he said grandly, and then started strumming his guitar. After a couple of introductory bars, he began to sing.

_You say it's your birthday  
It's my birthday too, yeah  
They say it's your birthday  
We're gonna have a good time  
I'm glad it's your birthday  
Happy birthday to you_

_Yes we're going to a party party  
Yes we're going to a party party  
Yes we're going to a party party_

_I would like you to dance, birthday  
Take a cha-cha-cha-chance, birthday  
I would like you to dance, birthday  
Dance_

_I would like you to dance, birthday  
Take a cha-cha-cha-chance, birthday  
I would like you to dance, birthday  
Dance_

_You say it's your birthday  
Well it's my birthday too, yeah  
You say it's your birthday  
We're gonna have a good time  
I'm glad it's your birthday  
Happy birthday to you_

The cook put his whole body into the song, dancing around a little and tapping his foot to the music, occasionally punctuating the lyrics with a slap of his hand on the guitar. He was utterly unselfconscious, clearly used to performing in front of strangers. All of the other patrons in the dining room were looking their way, and Geralt spared Ciri a look to make sure that she wasn’t embarrassed – sometimes she could be a little shy. But she was watching the cook sing with rapt attention, a look of awe on her face. 

When the cook finished the song with a rapid strumming flourish, the entire restaurant erupted in applause, except for a few sour-looking good ol’ boys who were sitting up at the counter.

“That was great!” Lambert boomed, his voice too loud as it always was. Part of it was due to the fact that he was just a naturally loud person, and the rest of it was due to the fact that he’d lost some of his hearing because he was shit at taking care of himself. “Where’d you get that song?”

The cook winked at him, and Geralt scowled a bit. “The Beatles. It’s on their White album. Enjoy your meal, it’ll be out in a minute or two.” 

Geralt watched the cook head back to the kitchen, pausing at the counter to don his apron and baseball cap, then turned his attention back to Ciri as she happily, if inexpertly, wielded knife and fork to demolish her birthday waffle. There was already a bit of whipped cream on the tip of her nose, proof that she’d been impatient enough to just lower her mouth to table-level and take a gigantic bite.

Eskel and Lambert both had matching, strange expressions on their faces when he finally looked up at them. 

“What?” He asked, a little defensively.

“Nothing,” Eskel said, fidgeting a little while he tried to find a way to change the subject.

“You were checking out his ass,” Lambert said bluntly.

Geralt blinked. “No.”

Lambert shrugged. “Okay. If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Geralt said in a low voice, glancing pointedly at his god-daughter.

“No one would care if you had, Geralt,” Eskel said quietly. 

Geralt grunted, turning away from Ciri slightly in the hope that she’d be too focused on poking chocolate chips into her strawberries to pay attention to their conversation. “Calanthe would.”

“Calanthe is a bitter old woman who is pissed that her daughter left custody of Ciri to _you,_ and not to her,” Eskel whispered fiercely. _“Any_ excuse to fight you over it would do, your sexuality –”

Lambert cleared his throat loudly as Triss returned to their table, her arms loaded with enough breakfast fare to send three grown men into pleasant food comas. She wasn’t nervous, exactly, as she placed Geralt’s order in front of him, but she was watching him closely.

Geralt looked down at his plate.

Of fucking course.

Any feeling of warmth or gratitude toward the asshole cook that had bloomed inside him as Ciri was enjoying her birthday serenade rushed out like the Alien being sucked out into the vacuum of space. 

Instead of diagonally-sliced pieces of toast framing what he _wanted,_ which were over easy eggs, his _usual,_ there were two full pieces of toast in which perfect circles had been cut out, and eggs fried into middle. He turned his flat stare toward the counter, where the cook was leaning nonchalantly on one elbow.

The man had the audacity to fucking _wink_ at him.

Geralt gave him a truly magnificent scowl and grunted “Thank you,” at Triss, who raised her eyebrows and then left them to it.

The yolk of the eggs in the toast was runny, and Geralt took a large bite along with some hash browns in spite of himself.

Damn it. It was actually pretty good.


	4. Poached

“You do realize that you can’t actually growl at your committee when they ask you a question, right?” Yen asked pointedly as Geralt shuffled his note cards around, upset that he’d already lost his thread the moment Yen had started prepping him for his defense. “This is basically a test of your knowledge, not an attack on you as a person.”

“I know that,” Geralt said grumpily. He couldn’t help it though. Every question felt like a reinforcement of the bone-deep knowledge that he had about how he didn’t deserve to be here, he wasn’t good enough to get a graduate degree, and the fear that everyone would find out he had no fucking clue what he was doing.

“Hey,” Yen said firmly, lightly slapping his hand. “None of that. You’ve worked hard, Geralt, and you’re going to be great if you can lose the prickliness.”

Geralt squinted at her, but he did feel better. Yen was one to talk about being prickly, but she was also a good friend. And now that she’d started seeing Triss on her nights off, that’s all they were at the moment. Yen was cool with open relationships but Geralt wasn’t, and he suspected Triss wasn’t, either.

“Hey, babe,” Triss said, her smile lighting up her whole face as she looked at Yen. “What can I get you?”

Yen waggled her eyebrows, licked her lips, and smirked as Triss blushed. “You are the worst,” Triss said primly, and turned to Geralt. “How about you, hon?”

“Is it possible to have a ‘usual’ if I never get what I order?” Geralt asked rhetorically, but there wasn’t any real anger behind it. He’d already resolved himself to never being able to have over easy eggs in a Waffle House for the rest of his life.

The fact that he could have gone to any of the other three locations in a twenty-mile radius meant nothing.

“I’ll put it in for you,” Triss snorted, and let her hand drift to Yen’s cheek for a moment before heading back to the counter. 

Geralt put his notecards back in order with a sigh, and Yen flipped through the pages of his polished, really-probably-for-sure-this-time final draft thesis, starting from the top and asking questions that were likely to come from his committee. He did actually appreciate her help with this, as he had never been particularly good at being challenged in this way, and his defense was coming up soon.

“So, here’s what the kitchen is serving today,” Triss said, her tone lighthearted as she set Geralt’s plate down.

Everything looked as though it had been cooked to perfection, including the poached eggs that were lightly dusted with paprika and had two whole stalks of chives balanced delicately on top. Like this was a fucking fancy brunch or something.

Geralt actually liked poached eggs – he knew that they were difficult to make right because he’d tried it himself, but poached eggs were for places that served things like Eggs Benedict and smoked salmon. Not Waffle House.

“They look just fine to me, Geralt, what’s the difference, really?” Yen asked a little impatiently as she watched him rotate his plate in contemplation of the eggs.

“Over easy are fried on both sides,” Geralt said. “They’re a little tough on the outside but runny on the inside.”

“Like you, then,” Yen said, giving him an impish grin when he glared at her.

Geralt stood abruptly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Can I help you?” The cook asked coolly as Geralt came up to the counter. 

“Just getting myself some eggs,” Geralt shrugged, crossing the line of dark tiles that separated the dining area and the kitchen.

“Oh, no you don’t!” The cook said sharply, putting a hand on Geralt’s chest and halting him in his tracks. “This may be a Waffle House, but the health code still applies. You can’t be back here.”

“Since ‘over easy’ is apparently not in your repertoire, I’m just going to make them myself,” Geralt said placidly, stepping to the side as if he were going to move past the increasingly annoyed cook.

“What part of ‘nope’ do you not understand?” The cook actually starfished himself, spreading his arms and legs and planting his feet so that he was blocking the entire gap between the end of the counter and the wall.

“What part of ‘the customer is always right’ escapes _you?”_ Geralt retorted. He didn’t actually believe that, he’d held customer service jobs before and knew what people were like. But he also didn’t think over easy eggs were an unreasonable demand.

“You want those eggs, you’re going to have to get past me, Wolf,” the cook said boldly, not budging an inch.

Geralt paused, squinting at the man and scanning him for weak points – then moved suddenly, wrapping his arms around the cook’s waist and lifting him up bodily as he walked into the kitchen.

“Hey, man, what the _fuck!”_ The cook squawked, grabbing onto Geralt’s shoulders reflexively.

“This is me getting past you,” Geralt said smugly, then grunted as the cook squirmed out of his grasp and shoved him back.

“Get out of my kitchen, you dick!”

“Try actually making what I order, then!” Geralt grabbed the cook’s hands and grappled with him, surprised by the man’s wiry strength and determination not to allow Geralt to set another foot into the kitchen.

Somehow they ended up with the cook pinned up against the wall, with Geralt leaning all of his weight on him in an attempt to keep him still. And he did go still as soon as he felt Geralt’s body against his, looking up at him with shocked blue eyes.

The shock didn’t last long, though, as the cook suddenly surged forward, tilting his head so as not to hit Geralt in the face with the brim of his hat, and kissed him right on the lips.

Geralt let go of him instantly, staggering back a few steps, taken completely by surprise and feeling confusion – and other, more heated emotions – flood his entire body.

The cook tensed, wincing a little as he braced himself for Geralt’s reaction and looking ready to bolt out the emergency exit if necessary. Geralt swallowed a few times, entirely unsure of what he should say or do, and then decided to just go with “Hmm.”

He didn’t dare look at any of the other patrons in the dining area – hell, he could barely look Yen in the face as he sat down and started shoveling food in his mouth so fast he nearly choked.

“What the hell was that?” Yen asked, sounding both baffled and, amazingly, delighted.

Geralt shook his head, grateful that his mouth was full and excused him from having to say anything.


	5. Omelet

“Well, this is uninspired,” Geralt said, poking at the omelet on his plate with his fork. “This is actually something you already have on the menu.”

Triss laughed. “We’re a little busier today, he must not have had time to go all out for you.”

“I don’t like omelets,” Ciri informed Triss, stabbing her fork into her scrambled eggs. “They put onions in omelets.”

“They don’t always,” Geralt said, taking a bite. “Although this one does have onions.”

Ciri made a face, then grabbed the ketchup bottle and squeezed some of it onto her hash browns. 

“Is there anything else I can bring you two?” Triss asked. 

“More Sprite!” Ciri said brightly.

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Please,” he prompted.

“Please,” Ciri repeated, smiling at Triss.

“Sure thing, sweetie. I’ll be back in no time.” 

Geralt focused on Ciri, listening to her talk about school and how she’d made friends with the new student in her class. The boy, Dara, had apparently become the target of the class bullies before Ciri had stepped in, with all her righteous fury. Geralt was mildly surprised he hadn’t received a call from the school, but Ciri’s teacher, Mr. Ermion, was someone whose judgement he trusted. The man had a good head on his shoulders and seemed to be preternaturally aware of what was going on in his classroom. As long as Ciri hadn’t actually hurt anyone, there was no need for Geralt to get involved.

Triss swept past their table with Ciri’s refill, unable to take the time to chat as more customers came into the dining area. Geralt kept half an eye on the wanna-be tough guy in motorcycle leathers who had gone straight up to the counter. If that dude actually owned or even knew how to ride a motorcycle, he’d eat a hard-boiled egg. 

Geralt’s time partnering with Lambert and taking on bounties had given him an enhanced awareness of people who meant trouble. And this guy, leaning aggressively over the counter and leering at Triss’s ass as she passed him, was raising all the red flags.

He was surprised to see the cook come into view, with the restaurant as busy as it was. Geralt realized that he must not be the only one working this shift. He was wearing a blue T-shirt today, which matched the color of his eyes, but his expression was hard as he listened to what leather dude had to say. Geralt saw the cook shake his head angrily, saying something quiet but heated. The guy replied at a much louder volume. “We have a fucking contract, Julian.”

Julian? Geralt suddenly realized that he’d never even tried to learn the cook’s name. He would never have guessed that it was Julian. He didn’t _look_ like a Julian.

“Not here,” Julian hissed. “You don’t come in to my place of work –”

“I do when you work for _me,”_ the guy growled.

“I’ll talk to you outside, not in here,” Julian said firmly, his expression pinched and sour. “Give me five minutes, Val, and then we’ll talk.”

“Sure,” the man called Val said, his demeanor now that of someone who felt like he’d won a battle. He sauntered out of the restaurant, whispering something to Triss and then grinning nastily when she shuddered and turned away.

Geralt growled low in his throat.

Ciri looked up at him, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows, and Geralt instantly wanted to kiss it and smooth it away. Someone who had lost so much, so young, didn’t deserve to be unnecessarily worried by anything. “It’s okay,” he assured her. 

But he wasn’t sure if it was. 

Triss came to check on them, her face free of its usual smile. “How’s everything?”

“We’re fine,” Geralt said, letting a little of his concern show in his expression. “Are you?”

“I can’t stand that man,” Triss said frankly, which told Geralt exactly how much this dude sucked if Triss was wiling to say it at work, to a customer. “He’s a major creep and he treats Julian like shit.”

“What’s going on there?”

“I’m not sure, Julian does some kind of work for him on the side, I think, between shifts and gigs.” Triss bit her lip, worrying at it with her teeth.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on Ciri for a minute?” Geralt asked impulsively. He would never normally do this, Ciri’s safety was his top priority. But he couldn’t help but heed his instincts, and he trusted Triss. “Ciri, could you stay put and play on your tablet? Triss will be here if you need anything, and I won’t be long.”

Ciri’s eyes brightened as Geralt handed over the tablet (he was usually very committed to limiting screen time), and Triss gave him a grateful smile as he went out the front door and circled toward the back of the building.

He knew he was right when he heard raised voices, and he carefully leaned around the corner of the building so that he could see what was going on in the alley behind the restaurant.

“That ‘contract’ isn’t worth the paper you wrote it on, Val, and you know it,” Julian was saying angrily. “I have no legal obligation to you whatsoever, and I am done just handing over my songs. I’m already performing on my own.”

“And how’s that going?” Val said, his tone mocking. “You work at a fucking Waffle House, you’re washed up before you even got started.”

“I’m doing just fine,” Julian said tersely. “Took me a long time to realize it, but I don’t need you. I never needed you.”

“Like fuck you didn’t! You were busking on the streets when I found you. And contract or no contract, if you don’t give me what I want, just remember that I happen to know a certain family who is very interested in knowing where their youngest son ended up.”

There was a short, tense silence.

“You wouldn’t dare tell them,” Julian said, though Geralt thought he detected a slight tremor in his voice. “And I know secrets, too, Valdo Marx. I could let the band know exactly how much you’ve been stealing from them. I have _receipts,_ bitch.”

Val’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Julian’s T-shirt, holding the cook in place while his other fist made contact with his face.

Geralt barely remembered moving. He seized the back of Val’s leather jacket and twisted it, tightening the unforgiving material around the man’s neck and shoulders to restrict his movement, then gripped the pressure points on the hand still wrapped up in Julian’s shirt, forcing him to either let go or allow the bones in his hand to break.

Julian wasn’t prepared for that and lost his balance, stumbling back before catching himself against the dumpster. He swiped at the blood running from his nose and grimaced.

“What the –” Val started, before Geralt threw him to the ground and held him still with a well-placed boot. The man looked up at him in shock.

“Get the fuck out of here and do not come back,” Geralt growled fiercely, knowing that his odd golden eyes added to the threat. “You’re banned. I’ll get the owner to take out a trespass order if I have to, and I’m here all the time. If I see you here again I’ll make sure you live to regret it.”

He could see Val doing the math, and wasn’t surprised when the man glared at the cook, standing behind him. “I’ll see you around, Julian.”

“You won’t if you know what’s good for you,” Geralt said, giving Val a shove with his boot when he tried to stand, and causing him to land in something unidentifiable and squishy.

Geralt waited until Val had dragged his leather-clad ass out of the alley before turning to Julian. “Are you okay?”

“Totally fine,” Julian said airily, though his face was a mess.

“Can I…do you need help cleaning up? Is there…like a first aid kit in the kitchen or something?” Geralt suddenly felt awkward.

“You’re not allowed in the kitchen, remember?”

Geralt was about to object when he saw the humor in the cook’s eyes. He huffed a laugh. “I promise I won’t cook anything.”

He waved Triss back when she started toward them, alarmed at Julian’s bloody appearance, and got the first aid kit down from the shelf that Julian pointed out. He couldn’t do much, only use some antiseptic wipes to clean the blood from the cook’s face and give him a wad of gauze to hold against his nose.

“It’s not broken,” he offered, and Julian shrugged.

Silence. Geralt cursed himself, he was terrible at this. At small talk. At talk in general.

“You play gigs?” He ventured, not sure if it was a safe topic of conversation.

Julian nodded, finally meeting his eyes. His eyeliner was a little smudged. “I usually play at the open mic at Torque’s on Friday nights.”

“That’s cool,” Geralt said. Did people still say things were ‘cool’? He had no idea.

“Come by sometime.” Julian nudged him gently, playfully.

“I will,” Geralt promised.


	6. Over Easy

Geralt was still riding the high of his successful thesis defense when he ducked into Torque’s and ordered himself whatever was on tap. He’d done it. He had a graduate degree, and he was never writing anything longer than two pages ever again, not for the rest of his fucking life.

Okay, maybe he’d publish. Eventually. After getting some professional experience and establishing himself in the field. But that was years away, and he wasn’t going to think about that right now. He swiveled on his bar stool so that he could face the stage at the other end of the room, where two women were singing a duet, accompanied by a pre-recorded track. They were actually pretty good, and Geralt guessed that this was something that they did together, as a couple, based on the way they were looking at each other.

It seemed like a decent crowd, in temperament if not in size, with people listening politely and giving an enthusiastic round of applause as the women took their bows and waved to a small group in the corner who were cheering. 

The MC jogged up to the microphone and gave the crowd a smile. “That was a lovely song from two lovely ladies. Thank you, ladies, let’s give them another hand! And next up, on acoustic guitar, please give it up for Jaskier!”

The audience’s reaction was bigger now, with a few people letting out some excited whoops as Julian stepped up and waved, smiling and acknowledging the love. 

“Evening, folks,” Julian said. “I got some feedback from our hosts that last week’s song was a little too, uh, _blue_ for this venue, so I’ve reigned it in somewhat.”

There were some disappointed murmurs at that, and Julian grinned. “Nah, it’s okay, we’re going to spread our wings a little bit, right? Move into more romantic subject matter.” He cleared his throat. “This one is called ‘Her Sweet Kiss.’”

And then Julian started to sing, about storms and heartache and kisses that didn’t sound so sweet, and Geralt was caught up. It was the same as when he’d sang to Ciri for her birthday, though the song was very different. But there was a magnetism about him, something that drew people in and captured their attention. 

The seating area and the bar were dark compared to the stage, which was lit by several very bright lights. But despite how difficult it must have been to see any identifying details from the stage, Julian seemed unerring in his ability to pick Geralt out at the bar. His face brightened, though he didn’t falter, and he was looking straight at Geralt for the remainder of the song.

It took Julian a while to make his way over after he’d finished his performance, as there were quite a few people in the crowd who wanted to stop him and chat, giving him compliments or joking around. But eventually he ended up at the bar next to Geralt. The bartender gave him a pint on the house.

“They don’t usually let musicians drink for free, he must have liked it,” Julian said with a grin.

“It was good,” Geralt said, taking a sip of his own drink.

Julian nodded seriously. “That’s how I prefer my reviews, you know, in three words or less. Short and sweet.” He raked his blue eyes down Geralt’s body. “Maybe not short.”

Geralt coughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You looking to go professional? Is that why you call yourself Jaskier?”

“I mean, that’s the dream, isn’t it?” Julian gave him an easy smile. “Everyone’s got to have a stage name. Now that I get to write only for myself, whatever happens, happens.”

“Has there been anymore…trouble?”

“No. Not yet. You scared Val pretty well, I think.” Julian reached out and squeezed Geralt’s bicep, making an impressed noise. “Where’d you learn to take care of business like that?”

“Lots of places.” Geralt shrugged. “Did some bounty hunting with my brother. Worked as a bouncer.” He took another drink. “Foster homes.”

“You were a foster kid?” Julian asked, and though his expression was tender it wasn’t full of pity, the way that it was for other people when Geralt told them.

“It was a magical childhood,” Geralt replied dryly, and Julian laughed. “How about you?”

“Me? Spoiled rich kid,” Jaskier said with a wink, then let his gaze drift back toward the stage. “Until I came out.”

“And when was that?”

“When I was sixteen.”

Geralt nodded thoughtfully, Val’s words back in the alley suddenly making a little more sense in this context. 

“I was having a bad night,” Julian said suddenly.

“What?” Geralt was confused, wondering if he’d missed a segue somewhere.

“That night when you asked me to redo your eggs. I was having a bad night, and I didn’t feel like doing any extra work. Thanks for not taking it out on Triss, by the way.”

Geralt nodded. “Not her fault. But what about after?”

“Oh, after?” Julian smiled brightly. “After it was just fun to fuck with you.”

“Asshole,” Geralt chuckled, and Julian laughed with him and didn’t deny it. Geralt liked that sound, liked the way the lines around Julian’s blue eyes crinkled when he laughed. 

He thought about what his therapist had told him during their session before he defended his thesis, when he’d expected to be talking about his anxiety about facing the committee but had ended up talking about Julian – in broad terms, at least – instead.

He nodded to himself. It was okay to let himself have what he wanted.

“You want to get out of here?” Geralt asked, and Julian’s eyes darkened. He leaned in close to Geralt, who could barely contain his shudder at the feeling of warm breath on his skin.

“Absolutely,” Julian said.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Geralt woke slowly, smiling to himself at the memory of the previous night, and inhaled deeply, savoring the lingering scent of Julian on his sheets. It wasn’t quite as good as the real thing, however, and he rolled over, flinging an arm out to where he remembered a warm body lying next to him.

But the other side of the bed was cool to the touch, and very empty.

_Fuck._

Geralt blinked, trying to swallow his disappointment. They hadn’t discussed it, it’s not like Julian had said he would stay. Geralt hadn’t specifically asked him to, they’d just fallen asleep together after the sex.

Well, after the third round of sex.

And that was okay, he tried to tell himself, trying to hang on to last night’s memory instead of this morning’s dismay. 

He dragged himself out of bed and had a brief moment of panic about Ciri before remembering that Eskel had planned for her to spend the night at his place. He started to rummage through the pile of clothes on the floor for something to wear for the short trip from his bedroom to the shower, then gave up. There was no point, he was alone in the apartment.

The sound of someone singing reached him as soon as he opened the door, and he slowed in surprise. Roach came trotting up to him, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she nosed his hand in greeting. She whuffed slightly and turned, heading back toward the kitchen, where the smell of bacon beckoned.

Geralt followed her, bemused, and stopped short at the sight of Julian in front of the stove, dressed only in a pair of Geralt’s sweat pants. They hung dangerously low on his hips and offered the promise of swift and easy removal.

Julian turned with a smile. “Morning. I made coffee.” He glanced down and his smile widened. “I like the dress code around here.”

“Oh.” Geralt actually felt his face heat, and he made to head back to the bedroom.

“Don’t feel like you have to put on clothes on my account!” Julian called after him.

Geralt considered and rejected the idea of naked breakfast, largely because he didn’t want to set the precedent of bare asses on the chairs. He heard Julian chatting to Roach after he’d thrown on some boxers, and grinned when he saw him lean down and give his shameless dog half a piece of cooked bacon. “Who’s a dear girl, then? What a sweetheart you are.”

Julian kissed Geralt on the cheek as he poured himself a cup of coffee, and to his surprise there was nothing awkward about it. He supposed working in a professional kitchen made figuring out someone else’s kitchen fairly easy, because he seemed to know instinctively where to find everything. It was a natural feeling of domesticity, as though Julian fit perfectly into his space. 

“Enjoy,” Julian said with a wink, setting a plate down in front of him while settling in the adjacent chair with his own.

Geralt’s lips twitched as he rotated his plate, orienting his food so that the yolk of the two perfectly-cooked over easy eggs would run into his hash browns, exactly the way he liked it.


End file.
